


Thanatophobia

by dirtypenny (orphan_account)



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock - Fandom, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Sherlock - Freeform, letswritesherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 11:05:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/dirtypenny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson never had many people he cared so dearly about, so he never had the chance to feel the fear that has always been rooted inside him. But now that he’s found how much he adores Sherlock, people might use that fear against him…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thanatophobia

**Author's Note:**

> Woah, I wrote this a while ago so it might be kinda ehh. Also, I didn't have anyone to edit it so sorry for any mistakes. D: I hope you like it and please comment your thoughts! :)  
> *smoochie*  
> -Square One

When John wakes up, he has no recollection of where he is. His eyelids feel heavy and his body is strained and weak. He looks down lazily and quickly discovers that he is all tied up on a scratchy wooden chair. His eyes widen. Ah, shit. He thinks, a new form of alarm bubbling up into his mind.

 

He tries desperately to strain against the binds around him, but to no avail. He gives up on that aspect and looks from side to side, a lost look upon his face. It’s dim all around him, but he can tell he’s in some sort of room.

 

“Hello?” He calls out, his breathing riddled with traces of panic.

 

There is the creak as a door is opened and a light switch comes on. John squints against the harshness of the beam. A tall man steps into the room, dragging something heavy behind him.

 

The man drops the thing behind him with a sort of sickening thud! “Dr. Watson, how nice of you to see me.” He says casually, reaching into his trench coat and dragging out some sort of short black bat, kind of like the ones that prison guards would use.

 

John wonders what he’s gotten himself into with this strange man. Was he drunk last night? Did he pass out? John scans the man, trying to see if it could spark a memory. Yet, as much as he looks over the greasy brown hair and stubble along his jaw, (and a nice bottom) John cannot recognize him. The last thing he remembered about last night was picking up a call from Mycroft, yet he couldn’t fathom the conversation.

 

“Who are you?”

 

“I think you should be more interested in what’s in that bag.” The man says swiftly, raising his eyebrows and pointing at the cumbersome thing in the sack on the floor.

 

John furrows his brow in confusion, but says nothing. He looks back up at the man, still pondering the idea if he somehow got drunk last night. John tips his head slightly to the side and asks, “What’s in the bag?”

 

The man smiles. “I thought you’d like to know.” And with that, he leans down and slips the burlap sack off of a tall body, lifting the head up and smiling like a hunter having his picture taken with his first kill.

 

“Sherlock…” John whispers, eyes wide, fists clenched. “What did you do to him?” John says through gritted teeth, barely keeping his voice from shaking.

 

“Nothing, yet,” He says casually, toying playfully with the bat. “Unless you tell me the exact location of Mycroft Holmes.”

 

John grinds his teeth harder. “Don’t touch him.” John demands in a warning tone, as if touching Sherlock would be like pressing the button for a bomb to explode, John being the bomb.

 

The man raises his eyebrows. “Try me.” He says. And without any warning,  he smacks Sherlock over the head with the bat, and John can tell from experience that it was a hard blow.

 

John’s body propels forward to help Sherlock from instinct, but is quickly rejected by the ropes binding him. John’s eyes are large with panic, watching as Sherlock’s eyes flash open and a groan escapes from his lips.

 

“Where is the location of Mycroft Holmes?” The man hisses at him, clenching the bat as if a warning that he would lash out again.

 

But John doesn’t process the question, all he understands in that moment is that Sherlock is hurt and in danger. “Don’t you dare touch him again! I swear if you hit him again I will slit your throat! Get away from him!” John cries, livid with rage. He now struggles harder than ever to get out of the chair.

 

John’s denial to answer the question only seems to piss the man off more. He raises the bat and hits Sherlock again and again right on the face, and now John has gone absolutely mad.

 

“GET OFF OF HIM!” He cries, voice broken and mind setting afire.

 

“WHERE IS MYCROFT HOLMES?”

 

“I DON’T KNOW!... Oh god, I don’t know.” John’s voice cracks as the pain of the situation creeps into him. Hot tears well up in his eyes as he watches drips of blood stream from Sherlock’s mouth and nose.

 

Sherlock’s head lolled from side to side, trying to form words but just wincing and groaning from the pain.

 

The man glares at John, walking slowly over to him. “Don’t lie to me.” He says through gritted teeth, smacking John across the cheek harshly.

 

John’s face stings, but the tears rolling down his cheeks soothe it quickly.

 

“Where is Mycroft Holmes?”

 

But John is suddenly oblivious to the man in front of him. All sound around him goes fuzzy. His heart pounds harder and harder, almost making it feel like his collar bone was rattling. John stares at Sherlock’s bloody face, panic rising and rising until he is timid.

 

The only thing that courses through his mind is that Sherlock is badly hurt and he could get very injured. The words of his therapist echo through his head.

 

_Thantophobia._

 

Blood streams gently from Sherlock’s nose and curves over the bow of his lips. A cut on Sherlock’s forehead drips crimson sloppily across his head and floor. Small cuts on his lips collect beads of blood that hesitate to roll down his chin. Sherlock coughs weakly, causing splatters of blood to fly from his lips and pull with gravity to rest on Sherlock’s cheeks.

 

John is helplessly rigid as he watches the man storm over to Sherlock and hit him over and over until his head bangs into the border of wall and cuts a slit into Sherlock’s forehead. That’s when John goes absolutely mad.

 

“STOP IT! STOP HURTING HIM! PLEASE! DON’T TOUCH HIM! STOP IT! DON’T HURT HIM!” John shrieks, completely frenzic, frantically trying to get out of the chair to rush to Sherlock’s side. All of his nightmares about Sherlock dying are suddenly becoming more and more vivid.

 

But the man ignores him and continues to hit Sherlock in the jaw. Sherlock tries to says something, but all it sounds like is the gurgling of blood.

 

“Please…” John sobs, looking at the man with desperation, a stray tear dripping down his cheek.

 

The man stops to glowered at John. “Tell me where Mycroft Holmes is.”

 

John looks helplessly at the man, his mind desperately clawing at the memory of last night’s phone call with Mycroft. He closes his eyes. He remembers… chocolate. And waffles. And… herbs?

 

John’s eyes flash open as he realizes it.

 

“Brussels, Belgium!” He cried out right as the man raised the bat to hit Sherlock again.

 

The man paused, laughed, and shook his head.

 

“Man, was that so hard?” He asked playfully, slipping the bat back into his trench coat. He waves teasingly to John. “Thanks. Perhaps your buddy can get you out of that chair with his pocket knife.”

 

And with that, the man leaves.

 

~*~

 

Sherlock opens his eyes very slowly, struggling with the heavy feel of his eyelids begging him just to go back to sleep. There is no aching pain when he’s asleep.

 

He looks about lazily, feeling a bit delusional- like he had taken one too many painkillers. He recognizes an aching pain on the back of his head and nose and gums. _Gotten myself into a real mess._ Sherlock thinks drunkenly, wondering where John was.

 

“John?” Sherlock calls out weakly, suddenly conscious of how dry his tongue is.

 

Sherlock hears a sound from upstairs like jogging and then the stairs creaking…

 

John bursts through the door with a bowl of water and a towel. Sherlock turns his head sloppily to the side to view John fully.

 

“How many days?” He asks simply, looking John in the eye weakly.

 

“‘Round three.” John says slowly, staring at Sherlock as if to make sure he was real.

 

“Mmm, did you take me to the hospital?” Sherlock asks sleepily, making grabby hands at the bowl of water.

 

“No.” John says, setting the bowl and towel on Sherlock’s nightstand cautiously. “And you can’t drink that, it’s mixed with peroxide. You’d foam from your mouth and go out like a light.”

 

“Why didn’t you take me to the hospital?” Sherlock asks.

 

“How does your head feel?” John asks quickly, ignoring the question and busying himself with dipping the rag gently into the bowl of water and peroxide.

 

Sherlock musters enough strength to give John a strange look that he does not receive before replying, “Aches.”

 

“Guess I’ll have to give you another painkiller.” John murmurs to himself, ringing out the rag. John grabs a chair by the doorway that he must have placed to take care of Sherlock. John drags the chair to Sherlock’s bedside and reaches over to Sherlock’s wound.

 

“Alright, I’m going to take off the dressings. It might hurt, but don’t move, ok?” John warns him. Sherlock nods quietly, closing his eyes.

 

John peels at the dressings gently, a sort of squelching sound as some half-dried blood goes with it. Sherlock winces, but puts a straight face on.

 

John sets the old wrappings on the table and picks up the wet towel.

 

“This is going to sting.” John says tenderly before pressing and patting the damp towel against Sherlock’s nasty wound. Sherlock recognizes the sting in his head, but he’s grown far too used to pain.

 

After patching Sherlock up, John leaves and comes back with a glass of water and a bottle of painkillers.

 

“I’m going to give you one more even though I shouldn’t, so don’t you dare try to take more or you really might lose it.” John advises as he unscrews the cap off of the bottle and shakes a pill out.

 

Sherlock looks at him wearily before sitting up a little bit and reaching out to take the water. The cool condensation is a strange feeling on his numb hands. Slowly, with lazy fingers, he sets the pill on his dry tongue and gulps down the water.

 

Sherlock catches John smiling at him.

 

“What?” Sherlock asks defensively.

 

John shakes his head. “Happy you’re alive.” He says simply before taking the glass and leaving Sherlock to go off his head from the medication.

 

Which he does.

 

~*~

 

When Sherlock wakes up this time he is confused, panicked, and yes, drugged out of his mind. He no longer recognizes where he is. He’s no longer on his bed but the couch. Where does the couch belong in a home? The kitchen? The toilet?

 

“Jooohhhnnn!” Sherlock calls out sloppily, feeling a little too warm for his taste. “Jooohhhnnn.”

 

John walks into the room, a placid air about him. “Yeah, Sherlock?” He asks tenderly, setting a plate of toast and jam on the coffee table.

 

“Where am I?” Sherlock whines.

 

“The living room, Sherlock.”

 

“Why? Do couches belong in the living room?”

 

“Yes, Sherlock.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I don’t know, why don’t you deduce it?” John says sarcastically.

 

“Mmm.” Is all Sherlock replies.

 

Sherlock eyes the toast on the table. “Is that for me?”

 

“Yes, and if you don’t eat I will force it down your throat.” John says playfully. (Okay, maybe not that playfully.)

 

Sherlock stretches an arm out towards the toast with an open palm. John places it into his hand and says quickly, “Now, don’t swallow until you’ve chewed it enough because your body is weak fr-”

 

“Thanatophobia.” Sherlock interrupts, looking at John calmly. John blinks. “What?”

 

“You, sir, have thanatophobia.” Sherlock slurs, pointing the piece of toast at John accusingly.

 

John’s eyes are wide. “What makes you think that?” He says shakily, trying to look cool.

 

Sherlock giggles drunkenly. “Even when I’m off my rocker with pain killers I can tell, John! I mean, freezing up when I was being beaten and not taking me to the hospital out of trust and being so gentle and even warning me before I eat a piece of toast! It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

 

John furrows his eyebrows. “How do you even know the exact word?”

 

Sherlock pats his own cheek lazily. “Went through some psychology books a bit ago when I was bored. You have a specific thanatophobia towards people close to you dying. Probably why you freaked over Mrs. Hudson… and me.”

 

John sits there for a few moments, clenching his jaw and wishing that Sherlock couldn’t still deduce when he’s mad from painkillers.

 

John gets up slowly and leaves Sherlock to his toast, deciding it would be nicer to talk to him when he’s stable.

 

~*~

 

Sherlock wakes up in the middle of the night feeling a bit more sane. He stares at the ceiling aimlessly.

 

 _Thanatophobia_. The word suddenly echoes through Sherlock’s mind. John actually cared for Sherlock that much that he had gone absolutely hysterical and paralyzed when Sherlock was being hurt. Sherlock was quizzical. Why does John care so much for Sherlock’s well being when he’s never done any for John?

 

Sherlock lets the topic drop when he hears John’s footsteps echoing slowly towards him. They stop at Sherlock's side and Sherlock hears a sweet little sigh escape from John's lips.

 

He feels a hand rest gently atop his head and something soft and tender press against his forehead.

 

A warm pleasant feeling spreads through Sherlock and makes his cheeks heat up. John...kissed him? The corner of Sherlock’s lips are tugged at gently by some invisible force. He closes his eyes, feeling this nice loving feeling. It was a feeling he had never felt since his mother died.

 

John’s lips part from Sherlock’s forehead, causing Sherlock to suddenly feel cold and empty again.

 

Sherlock can see John’s shape turning to leave.

 

Sherlock sits up quickly, suddenly needing John back.

 

“John?” He asks, using the moonlight streaming from the window to guide his hand to John’s wrist and grip it. Amazing how the moon takes so much effort to share what little light it has and send it millions of miles away just to light up his living room…

 

John spins around in alarm, eyes wide and panicked. “Sherlock?” He squeaks, arm going rigid.

 

“John, can you do me a favor?” Sherlock asks calmly. He points to his lip innocently. “Kiss me here next time, will you?”

 


End file.
